maybe in our wildest moments we can be the greatest
by possibilist
Summary: 'You look over and see your Metamodern Performance Studies professor, Dr. Quinn Fabray—twenty-eight years old, published poet, already regarded as one of the most formative theorists in metamodern performativity—looking like she's on the verge of just about sex on the dance floor.' One of Quinn's students runs into Quinn & Rachel at a club. Faberry fluff, headcanon drabble.


['You look over and see your Metamodern Performance Studies professor, Dr. Quinn Fabray—twenty-eight years old, published poet, already regarded as one of the most formative theorists in metamodern performativity—looking like she's on the verge of just about _sex _on the dance floor.' One of Quinn's students meets Quinn & Rachel at a club. Faberry fluff, headcanon drabble.]

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><p><strong>maybe in our wildest moments we can be the greatest (we can be the worst of all)<strong>

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_ mais de quoi? de vin, de poésie ou de vertu, à votre guise. mais enivrez-vous.  
>(drunken with what? with wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you will. but be drunken.)<br>_—charles baudelaire, _paris spleen_

…

You almost choke on your really, really expensive Sidecar when you see her.

Your boyfriend, Mike, had dragged you to this absurdly pretentious club uptown in celebration of his A on a genetics exam, and Mike is rambling something about some protein structure and how he'd drawn it perfectly when you look over and see your Metamodern Performance Studies professor, Dr. Quinn Fabray—twenty-eight years old, published poet, already regarded as one of the most formative theorists in metamodern performativity—looking like she's on the verge of just about _sex _on the dance floor. Her blonde hair is messy, and she's wearing this red dress that clings in all of the right places, her hands drifting down between her body and the women she's dancing with. She's _wild._

You'd read some of Dr. Fabray's work before you'd gotten to take her class this semester; you're a junior, and you'd rearranged your schedule to fit her seminar in. She's intimidating, with her perfect posture and exacting speech, even more so because she's young and startlingly beautiful. You're gay—you _know_ you're gay—but when she'd called your name, Adam Harding, you swear you questioned yourself for a moment, because she really does have perfect cheekbones and a perfect jawline and this low, inherently sensual voice. You'd been nervous to go into her office hours, with all of her Louboutins and elegant slacks, tailored skirts, but when you'd visited with her she'd not been nearly as intimidating. You knew, from the diamond ring on her finger, that she was absolutely taken, and you'd read her poetry collection and she specializes in queer theory so you know she's a lesbian, and there are a few pretty pictures of she and Rachel Berry, whom you're mildly in love with in the you're-so-talented sort of way, on a shelf, so you assume that they're together.

You also assume that Rachel Berry is the brunette woman that Dr. Fabray looks like she's four seconds away from _going down on_ about twenty-five feet away from you. You don't really know what to do but you end up laughing, turning back to Mike and trying to pay attention because you do love him, even if he wears on your nerves sometimes.

You start to enjoy your time with Mike more substantially, alcohol soaking in, and when you look away from him and back out to the dance floor, you don't see Dr. Fabray and Rachel Berry any longer. You and Mike dance for a bit, and then you head back to the bar to grab a few more drinks for some of your friends—Mike's biochem classmates—that have come to meet you.

Dr. Fabray almost runs right into you, holding numerous shots of tequila, and surprisingly she grins when she recognizes you. "Hi Adam," she says, her voice lower and thicker but much freer than normal.

"Hi, Dr. Fabray," you say, and you feel yourself start to blush.

"Since I'm drunk and we're at a club, you can call me Quinn," she says, laughing. "This has never happened to me before, seeing a student."

It's uncomfortable to see a professor at, like, the supermarket, so this is profoundly awkward for you, but Dr. F—_Quinn _doesn't seem that bothered by it.

And then you feel your entire body turn red when small, precise hands snake their way around Quinn's waist, a dark head pushing aside Quinn's hair and kissing her neck. It's loud but you're pretty certain you hear something like, "I'm going to fuck you up against the wall again," and you're torn between laughing and turning around immediately.

Quinn clears her throat. "Rachel, baby," she says, and Rachel Berry sort of slithers around to Quinn's side. Quinn is entirely, _incredibly _professional in class, and somehow you know, now, that it's an elaborate mask, because this Quinn is affectionate and sweet and smiles with the most intense look of longing at her—

"Rachel, this is Adam, one of my students," she says, and Rachel sticks out her hand, and you shake it although you _really _don't know where it's just been, and you need more alcohol for this. "Adam, this is Rachel," Quinn says, "my wife."

Rachel and Quinn share this absolutely _doofy _look for a second before Quinn turns to you and says, "We got married a week ago," and you smile despite how weird this is for you. It also makes sense that Quinn had missed office hours for a few days (although not class because you had had fall break), and you figure they were on their honeymoon.

"Congratulations," you say.

"I told her she should inform all of her students that it's _Berry_-Fabray now," Rachel says loudly.

"I think that'd be great," you say, and Quinn beams.

"Really?"

You have a moment, now, that you'll remember for the rest of your life. You end up working with Quinn for your senior thesis, asking her continuously for advice through graduate school, end up watching her present at conferences you too get to present at, although you never do end up teaching at the same university. You end up getting to know Rachel well, getting to babysit their children for them, and once, when you don't get to go home for Thanksgiving, they have you to dinner. You end up learning about how Quinn and Rachel fell in love, all of the years and hurt it took, all of Quinn's demons and the shake of her hands, how _brave _Rachel is. They become some of your closest friends.

Now, you look at Quinn and Rachel, and they are quite possibly the _happiest _people you've ever seen at that very moment, and it almost takes their air from your lungs.

"I think we'd all be happy to call you Dr. Berry-Fabray," you say.

Quinn smiles at you and then Rachel kisses her gently, briefly, and then Quinn hands you a shot. "Don't tell anyone about this at school on Monday," she says, teasing, and lifts her glass.

For years you'll be amazed by Quinn Berry-Fabray's talent for gracefully knocking back liquor, and tonight you watch them and you're filled with some wonderful warm hope.

"We're going to go, um, home," Rachel says. "But I'm glad you convinced Quinn to go with her _actual _last name now."

You nod with a smile. "It was nice to meet you too, Rachel. I'll see you in class, Dr. Berry-Fabray."

Quinn spontaneously gives you a hug, and this is by far one of the weirdest and most amusing nights of your life. "See you Tuesday, Adam," she says.

You watch the Berry-Fabrays make their way to two other women at a table, give them hugs, and then navigate their way out the door.

You make your way back to Mike, and you say, "You'll never believe the explosion of awkwardness I just experienced."

He kisses you sweetly when you tell him, laughing, and for tonight, you very much trust in the home of his mouth. He tastes like vodka, and you are so very drunk.


End file.
